


There were Roses

by HurricanesatDawn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach, genderbent!Mary Morstan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 05:48:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HurricanesatDawn/pseuds/HurricanesatDawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the idea that <a href="http://gingertiss.tumblr.com/post/40872408309/flying-shark-activate-after-the-fall-john">this gifset</a> imparts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There were Roses

Just the tiniest of traces of sun peak out from the grey cover of clouds, enough to make it somehow dismally bright, almost uncomfortably so. It’s not raining, it hasn’t in a while, and the ground is dry underneath John’s feet as he walks back out of the graveyard.

It’s been a year exactly since the day he first visited Sherlock’s grave, and he has only a small handful of times since. He made a promise to himself about that, and to Mrs Hudson, that he wouldn’t dwell on the dead. Though it’s not the anniversary of the man’s actual death, it feels more like it than anything else, because it’s the anniversary instead of the day John had to accept it.

Seeing that grave, that tombstone, something had clicked inside him; and it had hurt, it really had. His best friend, a man he’d admired, and perhaps even loved like a brother. Suicide has a way of doing that, of leaving scars that will never heal on the hearts of those left behind.

But he resolves not to hold on too tightly to the past. He got a new job after, but it had taken him a couple of months, to finally transfer over to working full-time again, now that there isn’t something else stealing his time, stealing him from shifts.

Sherlock was a good man, and even though he might never have admitted it, John doesn’t think he would ever have wanted anyone to suffer after his passing.

The little cafe into which he goes is far from one of his regular ones, and he’s almost tempted to say that it’s newly opened. But then he hasn’t been down here in months, nor has he allowed himself to linger after in the times that he had been near the area, and he could have easily missed it.

It feels weird, going into a place like this alone, and it always has, but there’s something freeing about it as well. He’s just a few blocks away from the cemetery, and it feels as if he’s keeping watch, for a few minutes, when he sits down with the newspaper, and orders a cup of tea.

“Green tea, a touch of cinnamon, and just a splash of cream. No sugar,” he murmurs, not looking up, or at any of the people in there with him. No one looks at him either, which is how it’s supposed to be, he supposes. No one ever knew his face, at least not well enough to recognise him from the stories; and even if they had, it’s been so long now that almost everyone has forgotten.

They had put it behind them, thinking so little of the man once he had died, as if killing himself washed away all the sins they believed he had committed against them and others.

Once or twice, near the beginning, there had been a handful of people that had approached him about it. _“Hello, aren’t you...”_ they’d start to say, eyes wide, full of that desperate need to hear gossip about people. _“Just one of those faces,”_ he’d tell them, before they could beg for an autograph, or even worse, condemn him for not knowing.

The tea is set down in front of him, nestled in its little saucer, and he thinks nothing of it, not looking up as he raises it to his lips. His eyes close, drinking it in, the smell wafting up to his nose, and it’s just perfect. It’s better made than anything he could possibly have done for himself at this point, too preoccupied to care about making the perfect cup anymore.

“Good?” asks an amused voice, and he starts, blinking. He hadn’t even realised the person who had dropped it off hadn’t left immediately after.

From his cup, his eyes drift from the man’s knees, up the line of his body, before coming to rest on his face. He’s lovely, in that sort of way that some men are __—_ and John has never been one to deny the aesthetic appeal of men like this _—__  and he has a soft smile gracing his features.

The line of his suit pants looks tailored, but not terribly expensive, more a comfortable, casual fit than anything meant for business; and he’s not wearing a jacket. Just a crisp white shirt, buttoned up nearly to the top, with the very last buttons undone, tucked away from his neck.

His face betrays him with a day’s old scruff, edging off down his neck, and his hair looks like it might fall onto his face at any moment.

While John could blush for noticing these things, he decides it would be silly to indulge in that, even as Sherlock’s voice taunts him in his head, for paying attention only to the superficial.

Instead, he looks harder, at the touch of what could be scraped away coffee beans underneath the man’s fingernails, at the tiny little blot of ink hidden nearly by the collar of his shirt, and the way his unwashed looking hair gives away the deliberate messy look.

He’s either a writer, or he works here.

“Yes,” he returns quickly, blinking again, “it’s...very good. I’m sorry, did you need something?”

It’s a bit too direct, too snappish sounding, and uncomfortably like something Sherlock would have said with his ever present lack of tact. But he’s been caught staring, and that doesn’t sit quite right with him.

He sets down the cup, nearly splashing it in the saucer, and his eyes catch on the pastry that’s sitting unobtrusively on a plate beside of it. It makes his eyes narrow suspiciously.

“You’re a bit paranoid, aren’t you?” the man’s still smiling, and without even waiting for an invitation, he slides into the seat across from John. He blinks, eyelashes long and beguiling as they linger over John’s face. “You looked hungry.”

“Thank you, I suppose.” He returns the smile instinctively now, reaching out to take hold of the pastry. It looks and feels fresh out of the oven, still warm from baking, and it smells of raspberries. “But you didn’t have to.”

“Of course I didn’t,” the man laughs at him, leaning back comfortably in the chair, like it belongs to him. It flits through John’s mind that it might just. “But I did anyway. Go ahead and eat it. It’s not poisoned, I swear.”

His amusement at John’s wariness is a bit off-putting, and right now, he doesn’t feel like himself. There’s either something incredibly strange going on __—_ perhaps involving Mycroft somehow _—__  or he’s being flirted with and hasn't caught on yet.

“Don’t I get your name?”

He brings the pastry up to his mouth, smelling it discreetly, before he puts it between his lips, and takes a small nibble from the edge.

“Mark.”  
  
It’s remarkably good, just the right amount of flaky, coming apart on his tongue, and he hadn’t even realised it before, but he really is hungry. His stomach growls its agreement.

“I’m-” he licks his lips, wiping away the crumbs, and he sticks out a hand to shake. “I'm John. It’s a pleasure, Mark,” and as Mark takes his hand, he takes another bite, larger this time, filling his mouth with the honey sweetness.

He scolds himself internally for the rudeness of it, but Mark doesn’t seem to mind, the smile still on his lips, and he shakes John’s hand firmly, a healthy amount of pressure before he releases it.

“Good?” Mark asks against, the same question as the one about the tea, and John’s eyes sparkle just a little bit.

“Yes, it’s very good,” he swallows the last bit, refusing to let himself lick his fingers clean, and then his hands go back to resting around his tea. “I should-” his eyebrows furrow slightly, “Shall I assume you made it yourself, then?” he really can’t resist asking that, seeing if his hunch is correct.

Apparently it is, at least somewhat, because Mark’s eyes widen incrementally, and he seems a bit surprised, but not put off by it.

“I- yes,” he shuffles in his seat a bit, moving to get more comfortable. “I pulled them out not but ten minutes ago.” He seems pleased to be able to say this, and John can definitely understand why.

His stomach growls again.

He’d be tempted to shush it, if it wouldn’t make him look silly, so he frowns instead, as if they both hadn’t heard it.

“Am I that easily given away?” Mark continues, before he can interrupt, and say something less embarrassing.

“No, you just-” he almost stops himself, but something pushes him forward, and bracing himself, he continues. “You’re dressed well, like you have a reasonable amount of money, but not so well that you’re throwing it away willy-nilly. Your fingernails have coffee grounds under them, which look nothing like dirt, and you- you have a blot of ink on your...” he gestures at his own neck, and then he coughs and looks away quickly, at his tea.

There’s a long silence between the two of them, and for a moment, he thinks he’s bollixed this up. That he’s read the situation wrong _— read Mark wrong —_  and that he’s only made himself out to be an idiot. Which wouldn’t be such a bad thing, but the idea of Mark leaving right now twists a tiny bit of his stomach up together. He blames it on not wanting to be alone right now.

“That’s remarkable,” the man breathes out, and John’s eyes flick back up, forcing a tight smile to unfold across his lips. “I suppose I should have washed my hands more thoroughly before coming out from behind the counter, but, well-” he laughs, at himself instead of John, and then he relaxes, sitting comfortably again.

“Do you own the place, then?” John bursts out, curiousity bubbling away at his instincts that say he shouldn’t ask such a thing.

“Yes.” Mark is still smiling, but a bit more self-deprecatingly now. “I bought it off-” the line of his throat bobs, and he shrugs, “the story is boring, I’m afraid. But I love this place. It’s a bit like a...a child to me, I suppose.”

“That’s-” he’s about to say _‘that’s admirable’,_ or _‘that’s lovely’,_ or perhaps even _‘that’s really wonderful’,_ but none of them seem like the right thing to say, so he hushes himself with the tea at his lips, now cooled down to the perfect temperature.

When he looks up again, Mark still looks more amused than perturbed by John, and it makes his feet itch a little, wondering again why this man is here _— why he’s even working here, if he owns the place —_  and what it would take to get him to leave by his own accord.

But despite what anyone else might think about John, he’s not an idiot, and he’s not going to ruin the best chance at a decent conversation he’s had in awhile.

“That is quite nice,” he finishes lamely, swallowing the last of his tea.

A response on that doesn’t come _— not like he was expecting one —_  and he sets the cup back down, ignoring the little empty rattle it makes.

Mark’s eyes follow it down, and then while John is still looking, they trail back up to his face. His eyes, John notices perhaps a bit late, are incredibly kind looking. It puts a lump in his throat, and just as he’s about to break the connection of their eyes, Mark’s mouth opens again.

“Perhaps you’d like a refill on that tea?”

He can only assume that it’s the man’s way of backing out of an awkward conversation, and after a brief second’s hesitation, he nods twice. “Yes, that would be- thank you.”

“Of course,” and Mark slides out of his chair, standing up, and all John can think is _'oh, he’s rather tall, isn’t he?'_ He picks up the cup and saucer together, and the empty plate beside them, and he smiles again.

“I will return momentarily, John,” he says softly, the words warm in the air, and for a flicker of a moment, one of his hands is resting on the back of John’s chair, but then it’s gone, and he’s alone again.

He can’t help the way he blinks, and settles back. There’s nothing all that special about Mark’s presence, or even overwhelming, but for some reason, he finds that he liked it. It’s not anything unusual for him, but something tells him that Mark would be the kind of man that he would like to have as a friend.

He seems the reasonably quiet and soft spoken type, driven, and John doubts he’d ever want to run off in the middle of the night with no warning, on adventures. _‘Settled down, that’s the phrase’,_ John’s mind helpfully supplies, still somehow drawing a distinction from the way that Mike is.

The moments pass, dragging out, and he realises suddenly that he’s still sitting there, as if he’s waiting for something to happen, or for Mark to come back, and he scolds himself for that. _“None of that nonsense,”_ he mutters quietly under his breath, and he reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, feeling around for his wallet.

Tucking a couple of bills under the cup of what is apparently sugar that’s in the middle of the table, just out of sight, he picks up his paper again. _‘I’ll finish reading the paper,’_ he decides smoothly, _‘and then I’ll leave after my second cuppa’._

He’s just about pushed himself back into paying attention to the words playing across the page when, just like the first time, the cup and saucer are set down on the table in front of him. Again, like the first time, his gaze slides up the man’s body, and rests on his face. It’s still Mark.

“Didn’t miss me too much, did you, John?”

“I-” he’s at a loss for words. If he’s honest _— and he tries to be —_  he had been expecting someone else to come out with his tea, and then disappear again. He really hadn’t had any hopes held out for Mark coming back.

Something he doesn’t recognise flickers through Mark’s eyes, and his smile wavers, but he doesn’t quite frown. “It’s all right. I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” his words have grown softer now, and John feels somehow guilty for that.

“I had assumed that you were-” there’s that silly word, assume, “-that you had taken a break, and were finished with it.” The explanation is rather lame, now that he says it aloud, and it doesn’t serve to alleviate any of his embarrassment.

“I don’t actually work here, John,” there’s a laugh on Mark’s lips, quiet and barely there, but John can still hear and see it. “I own the place, yes,” he continues, “and occasionally I pop behind the counter to make certain that everything is running smoothly, but...” he trails off, his smile broadening, just by a minute amount.

“Oh,” he’s even more embarrassed now. “I’m sorry. I had just assumed that-”

“It’s all right,” Mark repeats, placating him. “Now, I suppose we should get this out of the way now.”

John blinks, shifting in his seat.

“I have enjoyed your company, and if you don’t mind it much, and have the time for it, I would like to continue having it for a little while. But-” and clearly there’s going to be a catch, “-you are under no obligation to allow me to intrude on your time. And secondly, regardless, the tea and the raspberry honey cake was on the house.”

He swallows, “you can- you can sit back down. I don’t... _mind.”_

“Good.”

Mark’s smile is just a touch starchier, but still real looking, and he’s back sitting down again in just a moment.

“I’m not-” John stops himself from finishing that sentence, because it sounds stupid, even in his head.

_“You’re not...”_ it’s continued for him anyway, and Mark gestures with a hand, obviously interested in what John has to say.

He picks up his tea again, nearly hiding behind it, and he’s tempted to look away. “I’m not gay.”

It’s true; he isn’t. He had a few flings with men in his younger years, and he’s not ashamed of them. It’s just that he hasn’t met a man in a very long time in whom he had any sort of romantic or sexual interest.

It still sounds stupid.

It still makes Mark’s eyebrows go up quite high. “And you assume that I am?” the man laughs, a quick bark of sound, and his eyes fill with some kind of mirth.

“I- you seemed as if you...” he flushes, “I apologise. It was rash of me to assume that you-”

“Were only interested,” Mark finishes for him, “in getting to know you so that I could seduce you into my bed?”

He opens his mouth to say something, but only stammerings sound like they’re likely to come out, and he holds himself back from them. “When you put it like that,” he shuffles in his seat, slightly disgruntled. “Again. I apologise. I shouldn’t have assumed, or-” he swallows a quick, burning sip of his tea, and doesn’t flinch. “You must take me for an idiot at this point.”

“Not as such, no,” and luckily, Mark still seems to be amused by him.

“So why did you decide to sit with me, then, and bring me things?” he’s trying to redirect the conversation a little, just enough to get it off his blunder, and he suspects that Mark will notice regardless of how he puts it. “And while we’re on the topic, you can’t stop me from paying.”

“If you will look around you, John,” Mark starts to say, and he spreads his hands, a gesture that encompasses the entire room, “you will find that there are only a small number of people in here today. They’re all regulars. The man in the corner-” he gestures with a flick of his chin, “-makes business calls from here, over a cup of his favourite coffee, and he’ll often come in for a panini at lunch time.”

He points next at the only occupied table by the window. “The young lady is in University, and she revises here for several hours a day; eventually she’ll be joined by a few of her girlfriends. Her name is Samantha,” he adds, “if you wanted to know.

“Joshua over there-” he nods at a young man sitting at the table nearest the counter, “is here to moon over one of the girls that works in the kitchen. He’ll get a date with her eventually, once he’s mustered up the courage to actually ask her, and she realises that he’s interested.

“And as for-”

“Again, I’m sorry,” John interrupts him before he can continue. “You’ve made your point. You don’t need to prove it further.”

“No, no, if you’ll allow me to finish,” the look he sends John tinges on scolding. “Eric,” he gestures, “the boy reading quietly, is waiting to meet his mother, which he does here once every other week.

“And,” he concludes succinctly, “the girls in the middle table, staring at us, only come in periodically to buy a loaf of bread, and flirt hopelessly with me, in the hopes that I’ll show an interest in one of them.”

The words curl up in his stomach, sitting unpleasantly in their little nook, and he doesn’t quite like having them there. “So, you... What? You know every person that comes in here?” It’s a bit of a stupid question, but he can’t help it. “Isn’t that a bit... uh, impractical?”

A good natured chuckle spills from Mark’s lips. “Not necessarily,” something sparkles in the man’s eyes. “This isn’t just a business to me, John. I’m not just making money here. I’m...” swallowing visibly, Mark leans forward, his arms resting carefully on the table. “I- this place, is a part of people’s lives. Whether it be regularly, just once in awhile, or even just the once.”

His smile melts into something almost sad, and John is incredibly aware of the sound of his heart beating steadily in his ears. “This isn’t about making money,” Mark continues, “this is about affecting people’s lives. When you know someone, you’re reminding them that they’re important. You’re remembering someone, just by being there, just by a hello, or remembering how they prefer their tea, and what they like to snack on.

“I- I am quite fortunate,” he chuckles, a loud huff of air, “in that I can follow my dream, I’ve been allowed. Because I’m here not just making money by bringing people drinks and food; I get to be a part of the lives people lead. I get to be a difference, even if it’s only the smallest one. Call me an idealist if you wish-” the way he shrugs betrays how often he’s been hurt by those words, “-but I like to think that the world is full of a great many amazing people, and sometimes- sometimes all they need is for someone to notice that they’re there.”

When Mark is finished speaking, he deflates a little, looking away, and John takes the opportunity to straighten in his own seat, feeling slightly uncomfortable now. 

There was a time in which he would have agreed with the man’s sentiment wholeheartedly, and perhaps even professed to having a similar philosophy about life. But it wouldn’t feel right to say that now, to lie so blatantly, when he knows that things have changed, and he’s far from as good of a man as he once might have been.

“That is-” and Mark looks back at him, and his eyes have changed, as if he’s not bothered now, “You’re a good man, Mark,” John concedes. He offers a smile, a real one, even if it’s just a little heavy on his lips.

The man doesn’t strike up an argument over it, but he scoffs quietly. “You say that as if you don’t see a lot of those.”

“Truly good men are rare, and difficult to come by most of the time,” he shrugs a little, his shoulders going slack again after. “Occasionally you’ll meet one, and you won’t know it, but-” he swallows back something, “It’s more often you just won’t meet them.”

For a moment, it looks like Mark might have it in his head to call John one as well, but he seems to think better of it; and he nods his head once, a silent acceptance of the latter half of the words.

“I should-” John blinks several, down at the cup he can hardly remember finishing, then at the table, and finally back at Mark. “I should go,” he finishes solemnly.

“Should you?”  
  
“Yes,” he nods, and his eyebrows furrow a little bit, trying to remember why he has to go, and what he has planned for later. “I need to be at work in-” his eyes flick up to the clock hanging on the wall, “My shift starts in a bit over an hour.”

It’s the truth, and he almost thinks Mark won’t accept it _— and where that’s coming from, John isn’t sure —_ but he concedes, offering John a warm smile as he stands. 

“It was a pleasure meeting you, John,” and he extends a hand again, as John joins him on his feet, looking up. The man’s hands don’t dwarf his, fortunately, even if he does feel amusingly short with Mark. His hand isn’t quite rough or calloused, but neither is it the soft hand of a man who’s never worked. It seems more tempered, and that’s something he finds interesting, even if he fails to understand it.

“And you as well,” he returns with complete honesty, “I- this was pleasant.”

Mark claps his other hand on John’s, and then he pulls them both away, moving to walk back towards the counter, and behind it. “I hope to be seeing you again soon, John. Do come back.”

He doesn’t say that he will _— because he might not —_  but he nods and smiles, waving a hand before he escapes back out the door, into the chilly London air.

**Author's Note:**

> tbc regardless of whether or not anyone but me cares about it.


End file.
